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December 2005

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12/21/2005: "Mulholland Drive (a return)"

music: 'Gloria' by The Doors
mood: confused

We were talking about movies, David Lynch, the Frenchman, and I. The topic turned soon to Mr. Lynch's film, "Mulholland Drive".
"You were upset because my picture did not resolve certain plot elements, but much more important was the emotional effect. The images are burned into your brain, and because nothing was resolved, your brain is constantly thinking about what it saw, in order to solve this mystery," was how the Frenchman desribed it.
"Though you now know it was only a TV pilot edited for a motion picture release, your subconscious finds it to be a mystery that must be solved, so you play the movie over in your mind over and over again." That was how Mister Lynch explained it.
"That is why I usurped your will, because your mind has been destoyed by David's masterpiece."
I thought the two made sense, and any arguments I may have made vanished when the Frenchman told me to rip off my shirt, and I savagely did. Then I howled upon his orders, and stood up, visibly excited.
Have I made myself clear?" the Frenchman asked.
"Perfectly clear," I said. There was something strange about the Frenchman, I thought, but I couldn't put my finger on it.
"This llittle queer is such an ass," David Lynch said. I resented that, but impulses to squirm across the floor and rub my genitals overwhelmed any sense I had left.
Just then, Alanidondra walked in.
"I'm too late," she said sadly.
"Hi, Ally," I said, sliding out of my pants as I slithered across the floor, my hand on my cock squeezing tightly. She was ready to cry, but I was more affected by something else. I saw what was different about the Frenchman: his head was on a stick.
"That's strange," I said, but I still obeyed my compulsion.
The Frenchman asked Alanidondra, "Do you still have feelings for this warped, twisted shadow of the man he never dared be?"
"I do," she said. "Tom, stop. He's dead, and you're free."
I didn't stop, and the Frenchman laughed.
"His mind has been destoyed by my movie," David's head boasted. "Such is the power of cinema."
I ejaculated, and rolled in my semen, until it had been equally absorbed by my skin and rubbed into the carpet. She knelt down next to me, and held me close.
"You can still be who you are," she said, then she smacked me over the head with her purse. It must have had a lead weight inside, for I saw a white flash of light, and then all went dark.

I came to on my bed, with Alanidondra next to me, both of us naked and shivering.
"It sure is cold," I said.
"That's because evil spirits have invaded your home."
I touched her nipple, but only because I knew that's what the Frenchman wanted. What she said did not register: I ran my hand along the curve of her breast slowly, and I felt drool collecting in my mouth.
As I squeezed her tit, I said, "I'm probably going to die soon."
She opened her mouth, but before she could speak, I added, "Maybe I could be salvaged, but I recall when I beat the crap out of David Lynch. He was oblivious too."
"You'll be fine," she said, and she kissed me. I reacted with passion, but it was without thought. A tiny voice in my head told me I got lucky, and to go for it, and that "Mulholland Drive" was the greatest movie ever made. I got on top of her, and started fucking her, slowly at first, then faster with each thrust.
"That's how I like it, see," I said. She seemed to like it as well.
A few minutes later, I shot my load. I got off of her, then passed out. When I woke up a few minutes
(or a day?) later she was gone, and I stood up. I saw no one in the room, but I swear I heard applause,
and felt the heat of movie lights.

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